Storm of the Century
by Adam Shmadam
Summary: Set maybe (?) latish S2.


The rain lashed furiously against the windows. It had been raining for the better part of the day, but now as darkness descended the wind picked up, making a dull roar against the storm shutters that Lucien and Charlie had thankfully put up the evening before.

Mattie was curled up on one corner of the sofa reading and Jean busied herself with some knitting, although her attention was becoming more and more divided by the frenetic pacing coming from Lucien's study. He had been restless all day, and initially she had ascribed that to his police activities being curtailed by the weather, but as the day wore on, she wasn't so sure. He unusually said very little at dinner, and retreated to the business end of the house with barely a word to anyone. After she skipped her second stitch, she realized there was nothing for it but to go make some tea.

A quick glance in the doorway told her that something was definitely troubling him, although whether it was of a personal or professional nature she couldn't immediately say. He had shed his tie, and his top shirt buttons as well as his entire waistcoat were unbuttoned. His hands shook as he paced, before he would sit down only to rise a few seconds later and pace some more. He didn't look at her when she entered with the tray.

"Everything alright?"

He started at her voice.

"Yes…thank you, Jean," he said unconvincingly. He knew that she could see right through him. 

The wind howled as she handed him a cup, perching herself on the edge of the desk as she did so. He swallowed hard, and addressed a bit of the wall just above her head.

"This weather…it just reminds me of…a particularly nasty time we had in the camp…"

She knew that he had, as Nell put it once, "a bad war", - his nightmares had woken her enough times for her to have figured that out on her own – but this was the first time ever he had directly mentioned his imprisonment to her.

Before she had a chance to respond, there was an almighty crash at the front door.

 **x-x-x-x-x**

"DOC!"

The wet tangle of limbs that burst through the door proved to be Charlie, half carrying, half dragging a small slip of a girl, no more than eighteen or twenty, heavily pregnant and in a great deal of pain.

Mattie jumped into action, running towards the phone.

"I'll call for an ambulance,"

"Don't bother. The river's flooded, and half the business district is under water. There's no way an ambulance will get through, that's why I brought her here," Charlie said breathlessly.

"Well done, Charlie. Get yourself dried off…"

The young man shook his head.

"I need to get back,"

"At least take a flask of tea with you?" Jean asked.

The young man thanked her profusely before reluctantly bending his steps back out the door.

Lucien knelt by the girl, who seemed nearly hysterical with terror.

"I'm Dr. Blake. What's your name?" he asked in a low voice as if he were trying to calm a spooked horse.

"M-M-Mary."

"Well, Mary, you're safe now. We're going to get you dried off and then I'll need to examine you."

She nodded meekly, and Lucien scooped her up in his arms and carried her towards his bedroom.

"We may be here awhile, and this will be more comfortable for you than the examination table."

The next few minutes were a flurry of activity – towels were fetched, wet clothes discarded, hands washed. Mattie found a nightgown for Mary, who was still skittish but cooperating.

She found him in the corridor, his expression hard to read.

"I'm afraid we're in for a long night, Jean."

"How is she?"

He shrugged.

"Exhausted. She's been in labor, as far as I can tell, for hours so far."

Jean pursed her lips.

"What?"

"I was in labor for sixteen hours with Christopher."

"Bloody hell!"

"Jack was much better – he was only ten."

He marveled, not for the first time, at the strength of this remarkable woman.

Screams from the room alerted them to another contraction. Lucien looked at his watch and scowled.

"What do you need me to do?"

"Some handholding, I think."

"For you or for her?"

He answered with the ghost of a grin.

 **x-x-x-x-x-x**

He looked up at Jean, who was sitting at the head of the bed, _his_ bed, holding Mary's hand and looking positively lovely in the candlelight. The electricity had cut out sometime after midnight, and they had scrambled for every candle and oil lamp they could lay their hands on.

The half-light made his hair look darker, she thought, and the shadows emphasized the muscles of his forearms, visible below rolled-up sleeves. He kept his voice low, calm and encouraging, but Jean thought she could see, even in this light, the shadow of worry in his face.

Mary was resting in between contractions, but as the night (and morning) progressed, those opportunities became shorter and shorter.

"I can't do this!"

"Yes, you can," Jean said softly, rubbing Mary's back.

The girl just shook her head more forcefully.

"How can I possibly be a good mother? I'm not ready for this…"

"You are going to be a great mother," Lucien countered. He continued,

"…and the reason I know this is, in my experience, it's those who don't worry are the ones who probably should. This baby is going to be very lucky, and you're going to have a hell of a story to tell about how they came into the world."

He grinned, and was gratified when Mary answered with a weary giggle.

"Now, on the next contraction, I need you to push as hard as you possibly can, alright?"

There was a crush of fingers, and an almighty, primal scream, then perhaps the eeriest silence she can ever remember experiencing. Even the storm, which had been raging all this time, seemed to calm for that instant. The delay was probably no more than fifteen seconds, but the split-second flicker of panic in his eyes before he schooled his features seemed to freeze time. Without consciously seeing anything, she was aware of his sinewed arms working furiously, rubbing at an impossibly small, silent bundle. He was murmuring under his breath, and if she didn't know any better, she'd thought he was praying.

"Lucien?"

He continued as if he hadn't heard her.

"Lucien?!"

Then at last there was a snuffling sort of sound, followed by the distinctive full-throated cry of an unhappy infant. She let go of the breath she wasn't aware she was holding.

He continued his ministrations, his face plastered with the widest smile she had ever witnessed on him.

"Well, I don't think we need to worry about his lungs," he said over the continuing crying.

"His?" Mary lifted her weary head.

"Yes…may I present your son - all fingers and toes present and accounted for," he said as laid the bundle of towel in the young woman's arms.

"He's perfect," Mattie cooed.

"Congratulations," Jean said as she rubbed Mary's back.

 **x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x**

It was quite sometime later before Lucien emerged and flopped heavily on the sofa beside her, an odd combination of exhaustion and elation. His eyes at once lit upon the large tumbler of whiskey, on the small table beside him.

"I thought you earned that, tonight."

"Yes, I rather think I did."

She would allow him a certain amount of smugness, after the last few hours.

"So what now?"

"Sleep, if possible, then some breakfast. Once the road's clear, they'll have to go to hospital – just to be checked out," he continued after she shot him a look of worry.

"How will it be – for her?"

"Well, I managed to convince her to contact her parents in Bendigo at least, so I think she'll be alright. I was going to call them later this morning," he glanced over at her with an impossibly soft look.

"You should get some sleep," he continued.

"I'm not sure that I can, now,"

"Yes, it's the adrenaline."

"You could probably use some rest, too."

He shook his head.

"I'll be alright. I need to keep an eye on her blood pressure for the next few hours, anyway."

They were both bone-weary but neither wanted to move and break the companionable silence. The rain continued to pelt down, softer than before, and the wind had mercifully subsided a bit.

"So, how many babies have you delivered?"

He pursed his lips and made a show of thinking hard.

"Including this one? One."

"Lucien!"

"There's not a lot of call for that sort of thing as an Army surgeon."

He couldn't help but laugh at her shocked expression. She started laughing as well, a reaction to the stress of the night, and his heart sang at the sound of it.

He reached over and grabbed her hand.

"Thank you, for all your help."

Reluctantly, she rose, but kept her hand in his.

"Well, I'm going to try to sleep for a bit. Do you need anything before I go?"

"No, I'll be fine, thank you."

"Well done, Lucien."

She leaned down and kissed him on the forehead, so softly he thought for a moment he might have imagined it.


End file.
